


A Furry Little Problem

by noblydonedonnanoble



Category: Fright Night (2011), The Office (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:10:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noblydonedonnanoble/pseuds/noblydonedonnanoble
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"As soon as Peter begins to regain consciousness, he wishes he could conk right back out."</p><p>Peter Vincent needs someone to help get him sorted in the mornings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Furry Little Problem

                As soon as Peter begins to regain consciousness, he wishes he could conk right back out. Bloody hell, he is in _pain_.

                He can see through his eyelids that light is shining down on him—who the fuck turned on the lights? But he doesn’t want to open his eyes yet. Too bright. Too fucking bright. So he does a mental catalogue of limbs and other such extremities. Arms and legs, check. Hands and feet, yes. All ten fingers. All ten toes. He wiggles them slightly to test motor function. That’s all good too. As far as he can tell, all… other bits are good and accounted for.

                Sitting up might be good. Sitting can lead to standing and then after that he can get himself all cleaned up. He rolls over onto his side, in the hope that the momentum might be some help, but he feels a sharp jolt pass through him as his side comes in contact with the floor. He lets out a low hiss.

                “If you’ll come over here, I can get to work cleaning you up.”

                Eyes shoot open and now he bursts up into a sitting position in an instant. There is a sofa—if one can still even call it a sofa, since over the years, Peter’s certainly abused it—only a few feet in front of Peter, and Nellie is perched on it, examining him with an expression much like amusement. He growls, “So you’re the one who turned on the lights.”

                “It was pitch black in here!”

                “I like it like that. Easier to readjust.”

                She rolls her eyes. “Drama queen. I don’t like babying you, you know that. Now, c’mon, I’ve let you waste away half the day already.”

                Peter scrambles up off the floor and pads closer. He’s about to sit down beside her, but before he can, Nellie shoves some briefs into his hands. “As much as I appreciate the view, I suppose you can put those on. Doesn’t seem to be any problem in that particular area.”

                Although he can think of a problem that he’s currently experiencing—and she’s looking straight on, so it’s not like she doesn’t notice—he lacks the energy to make a crass comment. Light’s still too bright, he thinks. Much too bright. He puts the briefs on without comment, and then plops down beside her. Ow.

                “You were pretty quiet last night,” she says conversationally, as she uses a wet washcloth to dab at the gash in his side.

                “Last night’s never as bad,” he says with a yawn. God, he’s exhausted. Maybe he’ll just go upstairs and sleep for a few days once Nell’s got him all neat and tidy.

                “So I’ve noticed. Arms up,” she instructs.

                Peter holds his arms above his head as she bandages the wound. “I want a drink. Why do you never bring me drinks?”

                “You drink enough as it is without me helping you along.”

                He pouts. Perhaps he won’t go to sleep, then, when they get upstairs. Drink first. A few drinks. Perhaps several drinks, depending on whether or not Nellie— _MORE PAIN_. “Fucking hell, Nell!” He squirms under her touch. “You did that on purpose!”

                “Did not. Arms down now.”

                “Ow,” he mumbles, when his elbow bumps against the fresh bandage.

                Nellie now directs her focus on his opposite shoulder, which has another, less severe cut. “If you had told me, when we first met, that you could possibly get any whinier, I would never have believed you.”

                “At least I have an excuse.”

                She snickers. “‘I’m sorry if I act like a twat, Nellie, but it _is_ my time of the month,’ just doesn’t have much of a ring to it, I’m afraid.”

                “Well if you’d stop _calling_ it that…”

                “Nope. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Mood swings, bloating, a sudden desire for rare steaks… that last one’s just you, of course, but still.”

                Peter looks down at himself and exclaims, defensively, “I’m not bloated, am I?”

                “Alright, in your case, ‘bloating’ might mean ‘turning into a massive wolf every night’; I’m being liberal with my definitions, here.”

                Good. As long as he’s not _actually_ bloated, then.

                “You’ve got some blood in your hair, once we’re upstairs, make sure to take a bath or shower and wash it out.”

                Bath or shower in place of drinking? That just won’t do at all. Peter supposes that if he took a bath, he could bring the drink in too. If he took a shower, on the other hand, perhaps he could bring Nellie in too. Now there’s a thought.

                “What if I can’t reach? I think you should be there to help me, just in case.”

                Nellie rolls her eyes so vehemently that Peter practically hears them rattling around in her skull. “A bulldozer is more subtle than you.”

                “But less dashing.” He winks and grins.

                She smacks him playfully on the cheek and he can’t help it when he winces. “Get dressed.” She plops a shirt and jeans into his lap, and he tries not to cringe as the fabric rubs against countless scratches on his legs. “We’ll talk about that shower later, yeah? If you eat all your breakfast like a good boy.”

                Peter grimaces. “I’m not a dog, either. Wolves and dogs are completely different animals. Literally. And technically, a werewolf isn’t a wolf, either, it’s this—”

                Nellie holds up a hand to shut him up. “You know I don’t like wolf history lessons. Now let’s go, there’s a steak up there with your name on it.” She pulls him up off the ravaged sofa, and waits while he pulls on the jeans. Then she walks ahead of him, toward the elevator.

                He follows in her wake. Eyes her up and down—lingering on her ass and well who could blame him, when she’s walking like that, hips swaying like anything.

                God, she can be a handful sometimes. Though he’s not one to talk, turning into an uncontrollable wolf that, for lack of anyone more appetizing, tries to rip himself apart a few nights a month.

                But she puts up with this. Takes a special kind of woman to do that.

                Not that he’d ever give her the satisfaction of saying so.


End file.
